the best part of sadness...

...is the ending.

Today, I had an "I get it" moment, and started to feel the transitional "rut" and mental exhaustion of MY NEW LIFE melting away. Maybe it's the first signs of Spring in NY, or maybe I'm just figuring out my place and seeing that the risk is sooo worth it. :-) Either way, I'm sappy and silly and lovey (I can't wait to rub my nose on the BF)--and quite possibly annoying--all at once...

p.s. Another source of highly-recommended goodness is this brilliant storytelling podcast I "discovered" last week. I giggled all the way home on the "1" train while listening to Dan Savage's nervy explanation of why he's not "that kind of gay."

i want to be brave...

...but i feel small amid all this bigness. can i? can i? what if i can't? what if I fail? what if i am a disappointment? when I was a kid, I buried my head in all sorts of science books--not because photosynthesis and mitosis interested me, not because I wanted to be a cell biologist--but partly because I had nothing better to do, and partly because I did not want to disappoint THEM. all these negative thoughts and self-doubt and fear.

just how I'm feeling lately...

but in happier news: I am no longer home-less.

i made it to the end of week one.

Oh, the melodrama! This is my most convincing impression of full-blown exhaustion. Are you convinced? My cerebellum hurts. Wait, or is it the temporal lobe? Either way I'm fatigued and can't think straight, yet secretly loving the new gig.

Today my friend Chris reminded me of my "special breakfast sammich." He's got a memory like an elephant...and I've got an appetite like one. Anyhoo, there we were, bright and early, two amigos, in the company cafeteria--building the Cream Cheese and Bacon Sammich on a Toasted English Muffin. (We also added a little butter to the muffin--for lubrication). Try it, trust me, you will not be disappointed.

Week one has come to an end...weekend-in-DC-with-my-hunny-bee, here I come!

p.s. next week, I want/hope to be back to me. I owe papier-mache some tlc. (ooohh, i made a cheesy rhyme)

i only brought two pairs of shoes with me.

what was I thinking? minimalist schminimalist! Today it rained and more rain is forecasted for tomorrow, and I only have a pair of high-heeled boots, and a pair of ballerina slippers. I must have been temporarily insane when I packed for this week. Shoe shopping perhaps? hmmm...

And one other thing I just haaave to mention. I'm staying with two men, and it's a frighteningly backward feeling to go to the bathroom and afterward--leave the toilet seat UP! If you use the loo in a guy's house, is it proper etiquette to leave the seat down or up--or does it even matter? Maybe I'm being too polite...and overthinking as usual.

sensory overloaded...

That about sums up my first two days here. Paperwork, meet-and-greets, lunch with co-workers, trainings, meetings, grounds tour, ID badges, more paperwork...you know the drill.

People say that you're "starting a new chapter" in your life whenever there are major changes. I don't say it, but sometimes I think it, and in sitting here typing it, I've been overthinking, "Well what if it's a tragic chapter, a low chapter, my last chapter--the chapter where I'm murdered or raped and left in a dumpster where some bat-shit-crazy kids find my dead body and then a sad, pissed-off cop takes my case but can't solve it because he can't put down the bottle?" (too much SVU).

On Sunday I arrived in NY and itrinsically put on my NY face, my NY walk, and heightened my senses and peripheral vision--NY style. I'll admit, I'm a little caught off guard by some passing stings of lonely. When I look at my suitcase on the living room floor, for a silly second my little inner voice says "It's just me and you." Snap out of it! Not sure why I feel new in a place that I already called home for almost five years. I shouldn't have to remind myself that anonymity is my form of peace...but yesterday and today, I questioned whether I'm becoming "too old" to be so aloof. **sigh**

I'm all over the place. I must say though, I miss the BF like Amy Winehouse must miss crack (dumb analogy), and talking on the phone is so NOT us. It feels strange. Strange like, "Get off the phone and come over here" strange--but he can't. (not yet)

Walking home today from the subway, I couldn't remember which streets Citarella is squeezed between. And then I didn't know why I bothered going into a market when I'm staying with a friend and not planning on cooking anyway--at least not until I find my own place. Guess I just like the familiar feeling of being surrounded by all things gourmet. One baked flounder. A scoop of spinach risotto. A carton of strawberries. Half gallon of whole milk. Box of Cap'n Crunch (that's not gourmet!). Munching on a bowl of cereal in front of the TV in my PJS always makes me feel at home.

p.s. While waiting for the "A" train, I actually contemplated whether or not to sit on the subway bench--had to inspect it first for gum, stains, and toxic substances. What's wrong with me? I've become some subgenus of germophobe. I really gotta snap out of it. I know, with time, I can be dirty again.

"start spreadin the news..."

I've always wanted to sing-song that and mean it. Anyhoo--I want to write about my bus ride, but for now, I've simply updated two teeny tiny tidbits in my Profile. Betcha can't guess what.

blue mumbo jumbo.

okay. i'm not really THAAAT sad...a little sad, but mostly just foolin' around with Photo Booth. (i'm obssessed with it.)

I want to be a freelancer. A stay-at-home, expense it to my company, live in my PJs and get paid out the ass for it freelancer. I've realized I cannot picture myself rotting away in an office, no matter how nice the view. So, now that i'm in my 30s, this is my latest goal. (I wonder how many times I'll start sentences with "now that i'm in my 30s.")

I just saw a recent pic of Meg Ryan and cringed. She's still a cutie, but where are her wrinkles??? She's gotta be like 50 or somethin'--Meg, girl--embrace aging...go with it.

And onto some very sad news...last week I heard that Beyonce might be playing Etta James in an upcoming biopic. You know I love Etta. I thought it was false--but turns out--it's happening. Just awful :-( "Dear Hollywood, As you may or may not know, there are actually REAL actresses in your little town..."

Today is my LAST DAY of work--before I start my new job next Monday. Wow--I mean, it's just another 9-5pm, but I'm really proud of myself. Of course, there's a part of me, as always, that's fearful that on my first day, HR will say to me "Oh, you didn't get our email? We actually chose someone else for this job. Sorry." Or even worse, I'll start my job and my boss will find out that I really have no idea what I'm doing. A teeny tiny tidbit about my new gig that excites me is that I'll be blogging--FOR PAY!! (HOLLLA!!! --as the BF would say)

After years of being told "you need your head examined," I'm finally getting it done--but not because of all the crazy lurking up there. My new allergist thinks I might have a deviated septum...so, we'll see. My first thought was--"Hey, a free nose job!" My second thought was, "Just don't make me look like Janet Jackson."

UPDATE: So, I don't have a deviated septum...but I do have some "structural issues." So, now I'm waiting for my radiology report. oy vey.

but you'll hear my snort laugh on weekends.

(though, I know it's not the same.)

"it finally hit me...what it will be like to not have you
around to kiss and hold every night. I was in the shower
and i wondered, 'wow I'm not going to hear her snort laugh
every night.' you know the little lovable things about you
I realized you're going to take them all when you leave.
Wow i'm going to miss you."

it hit me really hard today...

...on my walk to the metro. "I will not be here next week." *sigh* Instead I'll be walking to the subway. And your keys will not be on the floor at my front door.

monday morning: the bean edition.

mi favorito coffee shop, Murky Coffee, has been seized by the government for tax reasons. Damn you Uncle Sam! All the more reason for me to get thahelloutof this city. Murky is pretty darn perfect--albeit the long lines (I can never tell where it begins and where it ends). It's been a pleasant weekend staple for me and the BF. Every weekend, we take our morning caffeine-fix walk...order two small coffees with a vanilla shot in each (is it Kenya or Ethiopian brew?). The BF is heavy on the sugar, I'm heavy on the half n' half. Then, we walk to the market for breakfast--cups in hand--discussing babies, books, and our plans for the day.

I'm very very very distraught over the (hopefully temporary) closing. My fingers are crossed that this wonderful shop fixes it's financial woes and re-opens soon...like by this weekend. I don't want Starbucks!

p.s. I didn't know coffee grinds help a garden grow.

***************
Photo from DCist

i've been thinking about getting a puppy.

And now that I'm moving, and I'm sure I'll be a bit lonely for a couple months, it'd be nice to have a little furball to come home to. But, puppies are like babies, right? hmmm. Seems like we've had this discussion before.

Today I saw a little nightstand on the curbside outside my house for garbage pickup. I thought "Wow, that's too nice to throw out," and just as I considered giving it a new home, I noticed dozens of teethmarks all over the top of it--and several chunks had been bitten out of it. Damn.

A little backstory: My neighbors have a puppy from the darkside, and by darkside, I mean hell. It's gotten so out of hand, they've hired a doggy nanny to try and tame her. When they first brought Doggie home, my roomie and I noticed right away. We didn't see her, but oh, the screeching and howling sounds coming from the basement spelled either anarchy--or a new doggie--or in this case, a little bit of both.

For the first week or so, we thought "poor Doggie. She doesn't like being home alone." But that thought quickly faded as we were subjected to regularly scheduled howling attacks during our evening TV shows. Then, things got considerably worse, not for us, but for the neighbors. One day, when taking the trash out, I saw two sets of shutters in the neighbors recycling bin. First off, are shutters even recycle-able? And secondly, the poor shutters had been ripped apart and were covered with doggie teeth marks. I guess, pressing her little doggy face against the windows while the neighbors were away at work wasn't convincing enough. She had to further prove the point that she wanted out...and what better way than by destroying what she saw as the thing preventing that? Makes sense. If I were trapped all day in a basement, I'd completely bite away at the shutters.

During the next several weeks, the "Doggie situation" did not improve. Me and the roomie got used to it, and maybe the neighbors just learned to conform to Doggie's whims and destructive behaviors. At least once a month, there was another ruined piece of their aparment on the curbside for garbage pickup--a 2nd pair of shutters (yikes), a lamp shade, other things damaged beyond recognition, and today, a cute little wooden nightstand.

Now, my thought about Doggie is of course "There's no freakin' way!" I'm not that patient with anyone, and I definitely wouldn't keep a dog that chewed away at my apartment. Plus I adhere to the fool-me-once-fool-me-twice rule of thumb. These people must have the patience of Mother Theresa--or maybe they're prepping for parenthood. Either way, they must really love that little devil.

Whatever it is, they've ruined (temporarily I hope) my desire for a puppy. Besides, I think it might be a bit cruel to keep an active doggy cooped up in a NY apartment. Maybe I'll adopt an old lazy cat instead.

the more i look at that painting down below...

...the more i like it. When I posted it I thought, "ehhh, it's okay, but I prefer her other work." And still, it's not my favorite, but i'm opening up to it. There's something poltergeist-like about it. Anyhoo...

This little friday smidgen was brought to you by a blogger who's 2nd to last week of work is kicking her ass. She hopes to be back to her regularly-scheduled posting very soon.

Have a happy weekend. Don't forget to Spring forward!

my life is so hard.

Weeks worth of packing, crammed into about 10 days--and i'm finding it difficult to start the first box. I want those neatly labeled boxes that are easy to unpack--but likely, I'll have those cluttered "I don't know what's in there" boxes. At times like this, I wish I had a Samantha.

Here's something beautiful to look at by DC-based artist Sylvia Snowden--one of my favorite living artists. I first fell for her work about a decade ago--it was "Malik, Farewell 'Til We Meet Again" at the Corcoran Gallery. I lost track of time, but it had to have taken me more than an hour to get through that two-room exhibit. You know when you're at a museum and you see folks standing there glaring into a piece of art as if waiting for it to talk to them? I always think they're full of it. But Sylvia's work is glare-worthy to me...it talks to me and tells a story. One that is thick and paste-like and multi-dimensional. In "Malik," Sylvia remembers her son who was killed in a shooting when he was 18. She displays his belongings mostly, covered in goopy paint, arranged together to represent stages of his life--and I remember wanting to touch his high chair, squeeze his basketball, and try on his sneakers.

sleeping all day on a saturday...

...is not just for lazy high school kids. I actually planned a "sleep marathon"--well, more like a stay-in-bed-all-day-athon (put this on your to-do list), and it's been magical so far: woke up at 10am, made pancakes and bacon, ate pancakes and bacon, watched cartoons (the BF's a fan), took a nap until 4pm, a mid-day shower, a blog entry (ha ha), and next--the first season of House, M.D., followed by my famous fried chicken and a home movie. Heaven!

A few days back, a fellow blogger made the observation that my hair in this post bears a striking resemblance to Chaka Khan's hair on her "The Woman I Am" album cover. And here is my favorite CK album cover (from 1979's "Chaka"). I'm honored to share even a minute likeness with the lovely, legendary songtress--with great hair might I add. (I think I wanna hear "Stay.")

sometimes all the good karmic forces align...

...and give you what you need right when you need it.

Like just now, as I'm counting down the seconds to a 1:30pm lunch date with my friend M (who the heck schedules a lunch date for 1:30???), and it's only 12:35 and I'm STAAAAARVING, and can't find a single piece of candy or cracker in my purse or around the office. I normally carry granola bars or treats for hunger attacks (and because I have a fear that one day I'll get trapped on the metro or the elevator for hours and i'll need granola to get me and fellow patrons through it)...and usually the receptionist keeps a bowl of Hershey kisses at her desk, but I just walked by and phoooey! It was empty! But, then, I remember, my desk drawer! Ahhh, my junky desk drawer might be hiding an old-but-edible snacky snack. And VOILA (such an overused expression but I don't care)--a bag of Corner Bakery kettle chips!

i rarely go to the movies.

I'd rather not get into a deep discussion of why (we won't go into my "people issues")--but let's just say, I'd rather sit at home, watch it on my own TV, with my own cheap snacks, and with the ability to press pause when I have to pee or take a phone call. But, last week, the BF dragged me into the theater to see THIS(watch trailer below). And I swear to you, a child wrote this screenplay (i think). A 10-year-old came up with the concept of erasing all the movies from a bunch of videos in a video store and having mos def and jack black (with supporting cast) clumsily re-shoot them all--Ghostbusters, Robocop, etc--and then speed-dialed Michel Gondry and asked him to direct and produce it.

Go see it though...for lots of wacky laughter--and get lots of candy, popcorn, and soda so as to simulate that fullblown bellyache, giddy feeling of being a kid again. Critics agree. The adult me is still a bit disappointed in myself for liking it.

i'm soooo not ready to have babies...

...so says the nightmare I had last night (contrary to my past sentiments). I knew I shouldn't have watched "Cold Case" and eaten two brownie cookies before falling asleep. Or it could have been HSN's Miss Tina collection (I watched it for all of three minutes) that threw off my sleep pattern...truly HIDEOUS, cheap-looking crap she's calling "fashion." just plain tacky!

Now for my nightmare: I went to the doctor for a regular check-up, and this evil nurse told me I was preggers. I told her she "must be mistaken!", so she made me pee several times into tiny glass test tubes. Then she shook all of them and cackled like a witch as they all turned pink (which, in my dream world, must be some sort of litmus test for pregnancy). As the nurse gave me the news 10 times over, my head spun with anxiety and questions--"This is the worst possible thing that could happen...my world is crushed! What am I gonna do with a baby? I just got a new job!!! I can't go on maternity leave yet? And what about [the BF] and his dreams?" Yes, I actually had this logical thought process in my dream!!!

And then I woke up this morning with a pounding headache, but relieved beyond belief that it wasn't morning sickness. whew!

my hair smells like a big bowl of fruit.

(In case you hadn't guessed, that's my hair up there.) I'm blessed/cursed with wiry, curly, wavy, unruly, straight-in-some-places-kinky-in-others hair. When I was a wee-girl, I'd run and hide from my mom when she tried to comb it, and my grandma used to call it "wild-woman hair." After nearly 30 years of running and hiding, I think I've sort of almost figured out a good mix of products to tame the "wild-woman." It's still a work in progress, and it's still winter, so who knows what will happen when the spring/summer humidity sets in. But for now, I'm sorta happy with my healthy hair regimen.

Back in the day, the only hair products I had to work with were Royal Crown and Cholesterol. I've seen hard times with this hair--poodle cuts, the mushroom (the guy from "No Country for Old Men" has nothing on me circa 1995 and 1997), half-done blow outs (what can I say, my arms get sore quickly), the Halle-Berry cut waaaay before there was a Halle-Berry cut (she stole my haircut!), one bad weave, and every type of braid you can think of. But now and I'm back at square one...the wash-n-go, whatever, low-stress, natural 'do. I'm seriously too lazy for anything else.

So here's my recipe:
ξ Shampoo and condition two or three times a week.
ξ Moisturize. A little bit goes a long way, and it smells fruity. Olive oil is a good substitute.
ξ Extra conditioning. I recommend two or three quartersized dollops of this stuff (products sold at CVS and on Ellin Lavar's web site).
ξ Pony tails, up-dos, chignons (i have no idea what those are), waves, and the like, try this stuff. It smells like fruit (yum!).
ξ Staying power. This stuff is great for when humidity strikes--but as with all of these products, don't over do it.
ξ These are also great products to try...for more defined curls...for light hold and shine...for lazy summer wash-n-go's...for a moisturizing boost...and for straight styles and blow-outs.

p.s. and here's another fab product I recently re-discovered.

happy styling!
(this is something I'd never say in real life, but I have no other creative way of ending this post.)

i hope to post something tomorrow...

...I feel like I've been either preoccupied or slacking or both.

In the past month, I've heard two very painful stories on the news about children who have died at the hands of their own parents. Really too painful to recount. Both stories make my heart ache...partly because children unconditionally trust parents to keep them safe from harm, and partly because these children will never have a chance to grow up and find out there's a better life outside their own dark circumstances.

Today I felt like a quote (from Mitch Albom's, The Five People You Meet in Heaven).

All parents damage their children.
It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine
glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers.
Some parents smudge, others crack, a
few shatter childhoods completely into
jagged little pieces, beyond repair.

i dunno, blame it on the freezing raindrops.

i felt like a sappy montage today (so unlike me, eh?). this is my roomie's cat Dante, the sweetest furball ever made! And I'm going to miss him (kitty man: only three more weeks of head, chin, and belly rubs). There's a reason women love cats. They listen better than anyone else--and cuddle unconditionally.

p.s. whew! cupcakes and kitties all week? I must be hormonal.

happiness in the palm of your hand.

Oh yes indeedy! And on a day when I can't really find it in big, tangible globs...I'll take some in palm-sized cake form.

I came across this new cupcake shop here in DC, and I'm posting the link here since the web site is oh-so-snazzy and because I rant at least once a month, "We need some real cupcake shops to compete with those yucky bricks they call cupcakes at Cake Love. Damnit!" (and no, i'm not linking to their yucky-brick web site...you don't even want to bother.) My BF loves them, but my argument has been "You can't just bake dry cornbread and slap some heavy, thick icing on top, and sell them to people as 'cupcakes'--and if you could, my name would be Dunkin Hines."

A cupcake is a spectacular experience--it's more than cake! For years now, my favorites have been the rich red velvets from Billy's that awesome Kevin and I used to stuff into our faces (your favorites were the german chocolates. Right Kev?). Another plus about cupcakes, which probably makes them extra-loved by women, is that they're just the perfect sized dessert with a bit less of that pesky calorie-fat-sugar counting guilt. You can't eat more than you can fit in your hand--well, hmmm...nevermind...INDULGE!!!

today felt like a monday...

...a bit overwhelming, with no end in sight. btw, I know this is a lazy, lackluster post, but there's a drop of substance still...promise. I wasn't OK with the "okay, so it's over" post lingering there at the top of my blog...it makes me anxious and flashes a reminder at me that I have things I need to deal with. Not today. I don't wanna. I just want to be simple for the day (or at least part of it.)...plus Bloated Kitty makes me giggle.

okay, so it's over...

...the birthday weekend has come to an end, and I've had an extra day to "recover." I had a perfect birthday--big hugs and many thanks to my friends (Emily, Asabi, and the BF) who threw the bestest party a 30-year-old girl could ever wish for. It almost didn't happen eh? (And also, thank you to fellow bloggers who sent b-day wishes my way...I'm truly grateful.)

I started feeling down tonight around 10pm. Actually, I started feeling down yesterday afternoon, but decided not to deal with it, and like everything else you hide in your closet and brush under your rug, it re-surfaced. I might deal with it tonight, but it's late, and so I'll likely go to bed with it keeping me awake. I have this deep, troubling feeling, right there inside my chest cavity, that I missed out, maybe somewhere in childhood, on some vital ability to process, deal with, and express emotion. I'm considering therapy, although I've tried it unsuccesfully--mostly because I find it difficult to be honest with a stranger--and, in general, I don't trust people. For instance, I have people I consider friends who don't even know about this blog. Why? I don't feel comfortable with them knowing so much about me. Crazy.

I also feel that I want to spill all my "issues" out at once and will the therapist to take all the pieces I've spewed out and fix me. I'm impatient--I don't want to go over it all again for months and months--I just want it fixed and done with. I know this is not healthy, and I know it take steps and stages--and at my age, I'd say it's time to deal with the things in my past that have tried so hard to screw up my present. I want to have kids, but my BIGGEST concern is that I will be emotionally unavailable to them, and they will need therapy because of me.

Now, I hope I can sleep for tonight, and deal with this a little more tomorrow.

so...i was born 30 years ago...tomorrow.

One of the many joys and pains of me and Hannah's weekend outings in NYC used to be our trips to the Union Square Forever 21. We'd look, from the outside in, with squinted faces, avowing, "I hate this store." Yet we trudge forward anyway, in hopes of finding that $12 top that didn't look $12. And it happened often; but even more often, we walked out empty-handed and disgruntled and cursed ourselves for engaging in the heathen-like shopping practices of "those teeny boppers."

Back then Hannah was around 25, and I was 27 or 28, and I would whine "I'm too old for forever 21" and she'd soothe my ego by telling me "no,you're not." This is all sorta-kinda, in a round-about way leading up to me saying that I think I'm ready. Well, no, I AM ready. I have to be, right? The big 3-0 is one day away, and I'm decidedly ready to turn in my 20s card and embrace it. Whatever IT is.

In another anecdote, I was chatting with one of my BF's buddies at a favorite coffee shop a couple months ago--and I threw in that I was approaching that feared age on which many a chick-lit novel and self-help books are hinged. He goes -- "Oh, that's the BIGGIE." I want to scowl at him, "Biggie my ass!" but I can't. I'm a grown-up, and besides he was a very nice guy. And I couldn't be bothered by him--he's a boy...probably mid-20s guy who's been thrown into the awkward fire of my torment and knows of no other way of putting it out other than to give an over-used, empathy-soaked response. So, I told him, to make both of us feel better, "It's okay though. I'm ready. At least for the actual, technical turning-a-year-older part. That's nothing. I guess what I'm not quite ready for is the societal-pressure-of-turning-30 part. Like, will I still be able to make the mistakes of my 20s without people telling me I'm "too old for that"? Will I still be accepted if I continue to behave like the big kid that I am?" Yes, I said all that. Then, afterwards, I thought, "Did I just make a plea for societal acceptance? Is turning a year older making me actually care about stuff like that"? No way, I shutter at the thought.

When I was younger, I told a lot of my girlfriends that were turning 30--"now you're a real woman!" How silly, but sweet eh? But that's not true for everyone. I'm already a real woman. All the mistakes and holes I've crawled out of and triumphs and sadnesses and fuck yous and changes that have happened in year 29 have prepared me for the worst and best of whatever is to come for me in my 30s.

Now for more of what I'm looking forward to in my 30s:

♥ gray hair (I think it's beautiful)
♥ the unstoppable sex drive i've heard so much about
♥ being brave(r)
♥ children (mine and those of my friends)
♥ nurturing my REAL friendships
♥ moving back to NY, and being able to afford my own apartment **fingers crossed**
♥ learning to drive (no, i've never had/learned to)
♥ dinner parties (sooo grown-up)
♥ buying a car maybe (although I don't like them one bit)
♥ going to Europe
♥ getting more financially stable (bye bye debt!)
♥ not givin' a fuck, more often
♥ more people telling me "you look 23." yow!
♥ life with my 26-year-old heart throb
♥ my book (hey hey now)
♥ more of this blog

Oops, memory's fading already. I don't remember who took this photo.

i don't celebrate valentine's day.

period. I'm not anti--but i'm not pro either. I love LOVE...everyday of the year! And I love being in love. And most of my friends who read this know I get sorta embarassingly personal on this blog when it comes to the love in my life. And, what tha hell--I felt like being sappy today...

HIM:
I read your rib blog and thought how my name
is now BF, and how wonderful the rib man was.

ME:
I call you that because I'm not sure how you feel
about having your name plastered across my blog.
And also, it still gives us a bit of romantic privacy...
and I like that.

HIM:
BF is romantic. i can dig it lover.

So much for "romantic privacy," huh?

well, well, well...i'm sartorialist-worthy.

I rarely post anything fashion-related here, but today is an exception because I'm on The Sartorialist! Not really, but the woman pictured here (click on it to enlarge) from Sarty's Feb. 7th post is wearing MY gray canvas pumps (is it okay to say "pumps," or should I refer to them as "heels?"). This is awesome for a couple reasons: a) these pumps are kick-ass, b) these pumps are comfortable, and c) these pumps go-with everything, but not in the tacky matchy-matchy sense. But also d) because I love this gentleman's site and not a day passes where I'm not perusing it and admiring some old classy French guy in a Donegal or young LES hipster in a some shabby-chic "only-I-can-pull-this off" costume. I get a sudden burst of whimsical joy when I see a piece of clothing or an accessory I own posted on his site.

more vintage obama...

...looks like a pic from a 70s college recruitment brochure--or the JCPenney catalogue. p.s. i think i'v outdone myself today..no more from me til tomorrow. Go B.O.!!!!

party like barack star, party like barack star...

...party like barack star!

I know, it's silly...something my roommate said to me yesterday, and I thought it was goofy, but still kinda cute (dontcha think?). And since today is the Potomac Primary, I'm gonna talk politics. Well, sort of.

I started proudly wearing my Barack '08 button on Sunday, after my BF bought it off some eager canvasser in my neighborhood. But I've noticed for months leading up the the primaries, even before I could get my hands on a button, much less a sticker, folks have been approaching me in a manner suggesting they're 100-percent certain I'm a Barackian...and by "folks" I mean mostly random people who don't know me from Adam. At work: "sooooo, you're voting aren't you? Barack?" At brunch: "Do you want the Barack Pancake Special?" And of course just about everywhere else from the drugstores to my metro stop to U Street bars.

And I figure I look the part of a Barackian. I fit the 'stereotype' I suppose. It goes without saying...I'm a young (is 29.9 still considered young?), professional black (or biracial. Not quite sure what they're calling us these days) woman and I DO give off that "I'm all about change" aura. And I figure it's impossible that I'm a McCainiac, and unlikely that I'm a Clintonite. But I wanna know why? Oh screw it, it's because I'm black, isn't it?

And I'm okay with shouting from the rooftops "I'm for Barack" and "I love Barack" and "I think Barack's haircut and signature pointy hand gesture are cute," but I want it to be on my terms. I'm still trying to figure out if I'm okay with strangers asking and assuming and offering me Obama-flavored pancakes. Nevermind that it seems slightly unethical for people to assume and openly ask about my political preferences. Our director here at work announced he was "for Barack" last week in our staff meeting, and then motioned for everyone around the table to say who they were "for." Uncomfortable! It was like The Wave until it landed on my boss and she said, with her feathers ruffled, "Isn't this illegal?"

Am I being ultra-sensitive? What's my point anyway? I guess in past election years I was either too young or too indifferent for any of this campaign madness to matter as much as it does this year. No, that's not my point.

It's more personal. I loathe being neatly boxed and labeled and figured out, particularly based on my age and appearance, and the assumption that I'm a progressive, left-wing, Green, organic, eco-forward-thinking, sustainable liberal. I'm uncomfortable with strangers being "sure about" me. And ever since I was taunted in middle school about my chest being too flat and my skirt too long, I've since not been the type to need to fit in or hang with the popular kids, and why start now? And that's my point...and so i've made it all about me. HA! Well, it's MY blog.

Photo from Harper's Bazaar

separated at birth...

I've been dying to post this for a while now. But today, (alas!) I have a good reason (excuse). Take a look at vintage Barack next to Aubrey Graham from Degrassi (btw, if you don't watch this show, you're missing out. It's one of the best shows on network TV).

dirty-old-man.

***because Mondays are extra long and blah, aren't they?***

The BF and I have a lil joke...kinda derived from one of his stand-up routines. When we're fooling around and just plain being silly, like we often are on Sundays after brunch, we feign a dirty-old-man voice and imitate some dirty-old-man mannerisms, and we rattle off dirty-old-man one-liners. Think the way dirty old men hit on young women in a real creepy, lip-licking way, but since it's old men, you somehow find it cute and endearing and non-threatening. "Lemme put some butter on your biscuits girl" **scruffly country old-man voice** and then we keep it going...until it becomes too ridiculous and we have to let it go so we can still giggle about it later.

lemme put some biscuits on your gravy
lemme put some gravy on your biscuits
lemme put some pork in your greens
lemme put some fatback in your baked beans
lemme put some butter on your potatto
lemme put some brown sugar on your yam
lemme put some syrup on your pancakes
lemme put some shrimp in your gumbo
lemme put some sausage in your jimbalaya
lemme put some Old Bay on your crabs <=<=this was my last one...you could tell I was winding down.